


Red Snapper Tacos

by boatkaptain



Category: Megalo Box (Anime)
Genre: Comfort Food, Cooking, Family Fluff, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Mid-Canon, Missing Scene, Team as Family, joe has adhd and sachio and nanbu love and support him everyone shut up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:46:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22175791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boatkaptain/pseuds/boatkaptain
Summary: While Joe is chained up and banned from training at the houseboat, Sachio accompanies Nanbu to the market.
Relationships: Joe | Junk Dog & Nanbu Gansaku, Joe | Junk Dog & Sachio (Megalo Box), Nanbu Gansaku & Sachio
Comments: 6
Kudos: 32





	Red Snapper Tacos

**Author's Note:**

> joe has adhd and social anxiety so this fic is really just an excuse for me to  
> 1\. talk about that  
> 2\. write about food

Nanbu poked his head up into the loft with narrowed eyes, waited a long few seconds spent staring at his snoozing charge before proceeding.

“I’m not sure this is a good idea, Pops,” Sachio whispered from a few ladder rungs beneath him. “Joe’s gonna throw a fit when he wakes up.”

“It’s a good thing that we won’t be here when that happens, then,” Nanbu hissed back. “Now hush. Go wait onshore.”

Sachio decidedly did not move, but he offered no further critique as Nanbu clambered up into the bedroom, shackle in hand and jingling softly behind him. Just as he reached Joe’s near ankle--exposed from beneath his skewed sheets--the young man stirred, scratched his chest before his breathing slowed to an even beat once more. Nanbu leaned forward, clamped the anklet around the boxer’s bony limb, dropped his hastily-scrawled note on the corner of the futon, and descended as quickly and quietly as he could to meet Sachio on their boat’s main level.

“I really can’t believe you,” the boy muttered, rolling his eyes. “Couldn’t you just wake him up and ask him to take it easy today?”

“As if he’d ever listen to us,” Nanbu scoffed. He was triple checking the second of the chain’s shackles, locked securely to the base of the ladder. “Come on, then; let’s make ourselves scarce. I think we oughta make Joe something real special for supper tonight to make up for…” He waved his hand vaguely. “This. Maybe if the fishmonger’s got good snapper we can grill one up on the pit on deck.”

“You know I’ll trust your judgement when it comes to good eats at the very least, Pops,” Sachio assented, straightening his cap.

The pair hopped off the houseboat and onto the concrete shore, climbed into Nanbu’s truck with a final glance at Team Nowhere’s homebase, both silently thinking of their dozing companion (and the inevitable unpleasantness awaiting him upon his awakening).

It was early, the springtime sun seemingly seated atop the distant skyline as Nanbu and Sachio cruised towards the center of the Restricted District. Nanbu’s stereo piped crackly old-world music from one of the man’s tapes--something about kicking off one’s Sunday shoes, to whatever that referred. Sachio leaned back against the ripped-up pleather seat and took in the familiar smell of Nanbu’s beer and burning paper.

“How come you can cook so good, Pops?”

Nanbu snickered. “Luck? Desperation? You got me.”

“Your parents didn’t teach you?”

“I guess they did, indirectly. Ma brought me up on the cooking her parents had taught her, but I didn’t pay much attention to what I was eating ‘till it was just my dad and I.” One of Nanbu’s hands stayed light and lax on the wheel; the other reached up to place a fond flick against the brown clay cross hanging from his rearview mirror. “He was from around these parts, knew the place and the food back when folks still called it Japan. Ma came from way west of here, though. Mexico.”

“I know about Mexico. I know about all those places. That’s where the Spider’s from.”

“Pepe Iglesias? Yeah, I guess it is.” They’d reached the center of the slum; Nanbu pulled into an alleyway a couple blocks from the market and parked. “If they sold corn reasonably cheap around here, I’d make tortillas to put our fish in.” The old man let out a sigh, smiling. “Mix it up with a little pineapple and avocado and lime--oh, kid, now you’ve done it. I can’t afford to go thinking like this.”

“Me and the guys have been making some dough selling soup tickets to watch Joe train,” Sachio offered, clambering out of the car. “I could help you buy stuff, Pops.” The boy clapped, meeting back up with his chaperone around the back of the truck. “We could even promise front row seats to sit up on the hill and watch Joe in exchange for ingredients. Wouldn’t that be good?”

Nanbu’s hand landed atop Sachio’s cap, ruffled his hair from over the layer of orange corduroy. “Maybe. Maybe it would.”

They wandered the market with intention, having joined the morning crowds in search of their breakfasts, produce for their roadside eateries and the dishes of the day. Scents of grease, frying pork, and charcoal smoke wafted about the wide street; the sounds of crackling cooking oil and hissing peppers in woks and vats was nearly deafening.

“Maybe we oughta get some dumpings for lunch, too,” Nanbu muttered.

“Yes, please!” Sachio agreed, reaching up to tug Nanbu’s rolled sleeve. “The _cha siu_ kind. They’re Joe’s favorite. He’d be so--”

Nanbu would never know, though he could quite easily guess--because there was quite suddenly somebody standing in their way: a young man with a fancy-looking camera around his neck and a tape recorder exposed in his right hand.

“Hey there!” he said. “Gansaku Nanbu, right? And--I’m sorry, young man, I don’t think I’ve quite learned your name. You two are Gearless Joe’s cornermen, aren’t you?”

“Ah!” Nanbu exclaimed. “That we are.”

“My name is Sachio,” Sachio muttered. The journalist hadn’t heard.

“Fantastic. It’s an honor to meet you two, really. I’m from the neighborhood, you know, so seeing Joe climb to the top like this--” the journalist gestured around to the posters plastering every spare brick and telephone pole nearby, each decorated with the stark, black and white visage of the young megaloboxer himself. “It’s fantastic. It’s really fantastic.”

 _This chump says ‘fantastic’ a lot,_ Sachio thought.

“Sure, sure,” Nanbu nodded. Sachio noticed that his cheeks were distinctly pink, and his hands wringing obsessively. “Well, listen, we’ve really got to get to our errands before the match between Shirato and Suger R.--”

“Oh, naturally,” the journalist nodded. “Before I let you go, though, is there any chance we could set up a short interview with Joe, considering you act as his manager, Mr. Nanbu? I work for the Megalobox Times, see; we’d pay good money for a quick five minute slot with your boy for the back pages--just ask after his start in boxing, his hopes for future seasons, all that.”

“W-well, uh--”

“Joe doesn’t do interviews. No face-to-face press, period,” Sachio snapped, yielding a look of shock from both Nanbu and the journalist. “He’s far too busy training to waste time with publicity, not to mention he’s got no interest in waxing on about his past or whatever, anyway.”

“Is that so?” the journalist asked, undeterred. Sachio watched as he clicked his recorder on. “Tell me a bit about this training regimen. If you’ve got the time, of course.”

“So long as we keep it quick,” Sachio sniffed. “Pops here is Joe’s trainer, whereas I try to help out with, uh… logistical stuff.”

“What kind of logistical stuff?”

“Strategy in matches. I’m really good at that. And of course I’m the best cornerman in the whole sport,” the boy boasted.

“How’d you meet Joe--ah, what was your name, again?”

“It’s Sachio. I helped him out with a casual spar, he got me out of a sticky situation--now he’s basically my big brother. We all live together--can’t tell you where; that’s a secret. We spend most of our time watching old megaloboxing matches when we’re not training.”

“Which involves…?” the journalist prompted.

“Sparring, obviously. Me and my friends help Joe out with weight training, too. He can pick two of us up on one arm and hardly even complains about it.”

“Do your friends spend a lot of time with Team Nowhere?”

“Oh, sure. The guys actually offer an audience watching Joe train for the low, low price of one bowl of homemade pork miso soup. No contact with Joe himself, of course; it’s of the utmost importance he isn’t distracted this close to Megalonia.”

“That is to say they charge a hundred and fifty yen,” Nanbu uttered, smiling sheepishly. “It’s a steal.”

“But you can’t reveal the location of Team Nowhere’s gym?”

“Well, it wouldn’t be all that special if we told everybody, would it?”

The journalist grinned. “I suppose not. I won’t bother you two any longer; please give Gearless Joe my regards. If he ever changes his mind about that interview--”

“He won’t. Thanks for your time,” Sachio peppered, reaching out to shake the man’s free hand.

“Same to you, Mr. Sachio. Mind if I snap a quick picture?”

“No, that’s alri--”

“Sachio,” Nanbu scolded, grasping the boy’s shoulder. Apologetically, he turned to the journalist, grinning. “Kid may as well be the boss of the whole operation, eh?”

“Sure, sure. Give me a smile.”

Nanbu did; Sachio did not. With one final handshake and farewell, the journalist was on his way--practically skipping, Nanbu vaguely noticed--and the duo were safe to carry on their errands with only a slight bit more haste.

“You gonna tell me why Joe’s barred from interviews in your eyes, kid, or are you just feeling selfish?” Nanbu cautioned to ask.

“I’m not being selfish,” Sachio snapped. “You must be crazy if you think Joe would like that kind of thing.”

“It’s not that I think he’d like it; I’m just not sure he’d be quite as staunch about his training schedule as you seem to believe.” Nanbu scratched his scalp, just under his cap, peered around for the fishmonger’s stall and spotted it just down the way. “He hasn’t talked to you about that kind of thing, has he?”

They reached the cart, fragrant and shining with the scales of fresh-caught fish and coal-colored mussels. Nanbu greeted the fishmonger and inspected his small crop of snappers, their pretty, blushing scales flaking off on his fingers. Sachio hesitated.

“Not specifically, no, but…”

Nanbu cast the boy a look, inquisitive but gentle.

“Promise you won’t tell him I told you this?”

“Of course, kid--”

“Seriously, promise. Pinky swear.”

Nanbu sighed, eyes rolling up to the morning sky, and locked his fishy pinky finger with Sachio’s. “Of course. Promise.”

Sachio stepped closer to prod at the pyramid of mussels on display. “We were up late the night after the match with Aragaki. Just talking and stuff.”

Nanbu pointed out his favored fish, and the fishmonger wrapped it up in parchment and twine and handed it off. They walked on.

“I don’t even remember how we got to the topic, but--Joe said something really strange. I was so suprised.”

“Jesus, kid, the suspense is killing me.”

“He just--well, I asked him if there was anything in the world that really scared him, since he’d been so fearless during that match, and he said he really, really hated loud noises. He always has, and they used to bug him a lot when he was a kid.”

Nanbu blinked, slowed his pace. “What?”

“Bright lights, too. Big groups of people. He gets mad when people touch him--strangers, mostly; it’s okay if it’s you or me. Even if they just wanna shake hands.”

“What the hell is he doing boxing, then? Christ, what an enigma.”

“That’s what I said!” Sachio exclaimed. “I didn’t get why, if megaloboxing combines so many things he hates, he still seems to love it so much. And he said… he said that when it’s in the ring, it all feels right, like that’s how everything’s supposed to be. When he’s in the ring, the loud noises and lights and touching are okay. But that’s the only place where they are.”

“The brat lives in the biggest damn metropolis in the Eastern Hemisphere. Is _that_ why he’s such a live wire? All the noise?”

“I asked that, too. I asked what it felt like when he _wasn’t_ in the ring. And he said that, when he was little, he hid a lot. Went up to high places and sat and walked around the outskirts of the slum.”

Nanbu caught sight of a stand selling Afghan flatbread--smelled it, mostly. He guided Sachio by the shoulder towards the scent of yeast cooking in the tandoor.

“When he started boxing, though, he started pretending he was in the ring all the time. And I was like, what, like you’re in a fight? And he laughed at me.”

Nanbu ordered the three biggest pieces of flatbread the oven could hold.

“He told me it’s easy. All he does is draw a square in his head around wherever he is. That’s all it takes.”

“Of course it is,” Nanbu muttered, feeling himself smile all the same. The old hijabi behind the stall’s wooden counter bagged their flatbread in paper and waved them goodbye, and Nanbu nudged Sachio off once more towards the covered square where produce sellers gathered.

“So… all that’s to say I thought an interview would just be annoying to him, at the least. He’s not very talkative with people that aren’t us, and he doesn’t seem interested in meeting his fans or talking to the press, and… I don’t know, does all that sound stupid? Maybe I’m overthinking stuff.”

Nanbu ruffled Sachio’s hair under his cap again. “You’ll make a damn fine manager one day, kiddo.”

“Really?”

“Of course. You’ve already mastered the toughest part of the job,” Nanbu proudly replied, spotting a table of citrus in the plaza’s far corner and making a beeline, Sachio in tow. “Understanding your charge is hard work. I can barely do it myself.”

Sachio felt his heart glowing under the praise.

“And, uh--don’t tell Joe I said this, but you’re a real good brother to him, too.” The old man picked through limes and pretended not to hear Sachio sniffle, bagged a few of the little rock-hard green fruits and carried on, muttering something about a spice seller, about chili powder.

The day brightened, and the match the pair planned on catching drew nearer. Sachio silently lent his pocket change when Nanbu’s coveted chili powder was fifty yen too much; Nanbu managed to swindle a drink-seller out of a bucket of ice with the promise that he’d bring him back a genuine autograph from Gearless Joe the next day. They made their way back out towards the market entrance, fish and limes on ice, warm flatbread and spice tight in Sachio’s arms. Finally, just before they reached the truck, Sachio and Nanbu bought nine fresh _cha siu_ bao buns, filled with hot, sweet barbecue pork.

“Well,” Nanbu sighed as they loaded their goods into the backseat of the truck, “I’m officially flat broke.”

“Don’t worry, Pops; the guys and I will keep selling miso to see Joe train. I bet they’d be happy to lend you their share if you cooked for ‘em.”

Nanbu laughed at that as he climbed into the driver’s seat, turned the protesting ignition. “I can work with that. C’mon, we’ve got some time before the match. We can go look around the stadium lobby and pretend we’re rich investors.”

“ _I say_ , Pops, this is shaping up to be a _splendid_ megaloboxing season. _Hem hem._ ”

Nanbu cackled before parroting Sachio’s posh affectation. “Goodness me, young master Sachio, doth I spy the good lady Shirato with a massive--how do you say--stick up her ass?”

Sachio laughed so hard he snorted. “Who will you be investing in, Lord Nanbu?”

“Why, Gearless Joe, of course. I hear he’s simply too _fancy_ to do interviews, and an unwillingness to mingle with the lower classes is all I look for in a boxer, personally.”

They both laughed themselves to tears at that, and only stopped when they’d parked and reached the stadium’s grand entrance.

-

Joe lay skewed on the bench seat in the houseboat’s kitchen, face squished in tight as he squinted beneath a bar of blazing sunset light. The boat smelled of a strangely comforting, if funky, mix of the salve coating each of Joe’s bruises and the raw fish in Nanbu’s hands, slowly losing its shiny pink scales while Sachio carefully watched. Nanbu’s hands, however callused and strong, worked delicately--he held the snapper by its tail and ran a blade down its body toward the gills, let scales flake off like mica. The knife punctured just beneath the fish’s head and slipped down smoothly, opening a deep laceration.

“This is the fun part,” Nanbu muttered down to his tutee. “You wanna gut this bad boy, or should I?”

“Gross. No,” Sachio spat, sticking out his tongue. Joe, from his recline across the room, chuckled.

Nanbu simply scoffed, went about reaching his hand inside the snapper and pulling out the offal. He ran water from the faucet over and through the gutted fish, then lay it back on his cutting board to begin filleting.

“What’d you two get up to today after chaining me to a post?” Joe asked, definitely not passive-aggressively. “Nothing too fun, I hope.”

“That was all Pops’ idea, you know,” Sachio snapped. “Anyways, we hardly did anything. Went grocery shopping and watched Mikio and Suger R.’s match, that’s all.”

“Both of those still sound better than being chained to a post,” Joe muttered. “What are you making, anyways?”

“None of your business. You’ll eat it either way. Sachio, get me a couple beers out of the cooler, would you?”

“Drinking on the job,” Joe sighed, feigning a scandalized huff. “For shame, old man.”

“They’re not for me, fool,” Nanbu snapped. “I’m gonna use ‘em to batter the fish.”

Joe sat up, blinking. “There’s no beer in tempura batter.”

“Good thing I’m not making tempura batter.” Sachio handed off the drinks, and Nanbu thanked him, swiftly swiped the bottlenecks against the edge of the counter to knock off their caps. The old man mixed the ales with flour in a metal bowl that sang when he stirred. He dipped his fillets in the batter before dropping them in a dented pan of spitting oil; Sachio watched, enraptured, as golden bubbles enveloped the beer-battered fish and turned their gooey coating brown and crackly.

At some point along the line, when the fish had been pulled from the oil and were draining on yesterday’s newspaper, Joe pulled himself up and loomed on Nanbu’s opposite side. He watched with befuddled curiosity as the old man used the rim of a bowl to cut circles out of the large rectangular flatbreads and placed them over low stovetop flames to char.

“Sachio, wanna lend me a hand?”

“Does it involve gutting a fish?”

“Close. Cutting lime wedges. You know how to do that?”

Sachio scoffed. “I think I can figure it out.”

Nanbu handed him a small knife, blade facing down, and Sachio took it to the table where the limes were waiting, rolling just slightly, this way and that, with the motion of the boat. Something occurred to Sachio as he very carefully, very slowly halved one of the limes.

“Pops, how come we don’t get seasick living on a boat like this?”

“Speak for yourself,” Nanbu grunted. “I spent my and Joe’s first night here laying with my bare stomach on the kitchen floor to try and keep from hurling.”

“Gross. I thought you were just brooding out on the deck,” Joe muttered.

“What about you?” Sachio asked, regarding the fighter.

“Hasn’t ever bothered me. I think it’s calming,” Joe said.

“Of course you do,” Nanbu snorted, reaching up to ruffle a fond, rough hand through Joe’s hair. As Sachio watched Joe wrestle, chuckling, out from Nanbu’s grasp, he realized in an oddly casual fashion that he loved every conceivable thing about this pair. Joe’s scrappy, neurotic calm; Nanbu’s measuredness in his every duty, however slapdash.

Sachio would have pondered that notion longer if he didn’t have limes to cut. Slowly, deliberately, he went on making the hard green fruits into fragrant wedges that made his dry fingertips sting and pucker.

Plates clattered down on the dinner booth’s tabletop; Nanbu lay a tray of the circular flatbreads and pieces of battered snapper in the center of the setting, alongside a last-minute addition of some skinny, uncooked greens they’d had with supper a few nights prior and leftover cabbage mixed with mayo and rice vinegar, before they sat down to scrutinize his handiwork.

“Not your usual spread,” Joe muttered, not displeased.

“I tried something different; sue me,” Nanbu replied shyly. “Wrap up a piece of the fish in the flatbread with all the other stuff on top, and squeeze some lime over the whole thing before eating it.”

“Where’s our chopsticks?”

“You don’t need ‘em.” Nanbu flicked his hand over the food. “Well, go on. Give it a try.”

Carefully, Sachio and Joe followed the old man’s instructions, using their fingers and pieces of flatbread to put their food together. Joe, ever trusting, took the first bite--seemed to recoil at the unfamiliar spice and wheaty tang to the fish’s batter before his eyes lit up as it all seemed to come together for him, so to speak. Sachio heard his feet tap-tap-tapping on the floor before he could swallow and voice his approval.

“That’s _damn_ good, Pops!”

Nanbu visibly blushed, only smiled as he prepared a taco of his own. “Don’t be a kissass, Joe; it doesn’t suit you.”

Here Sachio gave the unfamiliar food a try. He was enraptured by the way the fried fish melted on his tongue amongst its beer batter; the slaw and greens gave the bite a tartness, and the lime lightened it all addictively. He’d practically downed half the meal before he could offer Nanbu a compliment of his own.

“He’s right, Pops. You should make this stuff every night,” Sachio said through a mouthful of shungiku.

“Ha! Maybe I will.” Nanbu watched, pleased, while Joe reached for another piece of flatbread. The boxer took instantly to the process this time, fingers deftly finding his components and piling them on with perfect ratios, pinky slipping out every now and then to nudge some errant leaf or bit of stray batter back into place. Separately, Sachio and Nanbu briefly wondered if there was some deeper technique to this process for him, too--a proverbial boxing ring around the perfect bite of snapper and flatbread and slaw. But then, they supposed they all had their own quirks in this sense--Sachio quickly learned he could happily do without all the leafy add-ons, whereas Nanbu went searching for extra chili powder midway through the meal and doused his next few tacos with it. Between messy mouthfuls, Nanbu and Sachio answered Joe’s questions about the match they’d watched today, about Mikio Shirato’s techniques and style, about the goings-on at the market. They told him about the journalist and his impromptu interview, about his real aims to get at Joe. Much to Sachio’s pride (and Nanbu’s, secondhand), Joe grimaced at the very thought.

“Ugh. Thanks for getting me out of it,” he said, pushing at scraps of cabbage on his plate with a finger.

“‘Course, kid,” Nanbu dismissed him, sipping a beer. “I wasn’t convinced at first, but Sachio insisted you wouldn’t gel with it.”

“Did he?” Joe smiled, leaning his chin in his hand. Sachio stared with narrowed eyes at Nanbu.

“ _Pops,_ ” he hissed.

But before the boy could voice his grievances at having been revealed--he’d promised himself he’d keep what Joe told him secret, for goodness’ sake!--Joe crossed his arms and leaned back in the booth with a satiated grin. “You do me good, Sachio. Pops here would’ve been whoring me out to journalists ‘till the end of time if you hadn’t gotten him on the straight-and-narrow.”

“Language,” Nanbu muttered.

“Ah,” Sachio blinked, staring down at his plate. “Well. Good.”

When dinner was done and dishes were waiting, shiny with grease and vinegar, in the sink, the three convened on one side of the booth to watch a day-old broadcast of the match between Joe and Aragaki, Joe himself crammed comfortably between his companions. Sachio snuck a long glance up at him as the fighter’s eyes were fixed on the screen, darting subtly between the digitized versions of himself and the veteran. How his mind must always have been racing, maintaining his mental ring all while the world spun around him, with him.

Joe’s eyes snuck down and caught Sachio staring.

“What?” he smirked.

“Nothing.”

Snickering, Joe slung an arm around Sachio’s shoulders, pulled him roughly into his side. Sachio tried to picture the square that surrounded the three of them, canvas and ropes and a periodic bell.


End file.
